FROM VAN TO BITLIS
The journey from Van to Bitlis may be performed in four days; it is a
ride of about a hundred miles. But no traveller will desire to omit
a visit to the isle of Akhtamar, which will occupy another day. Nor
is it well to press in haste through a country of such manifold
interest, and along a coast which for beauty of feature and grandeur
of surroundings can scarcely have an equal in the world. It was at Van
that, for the first time since setting foot upon Armenian soil, we had
been introduced to a civilisation in any sense comparable to the scale
and dignity of the landscapes through which we passed; and, although
the monuments of that vanished culture belong to a remote antiquity,
they are well calculated to divert our minds from the contemplation
of the works of Nature, or at least to recall us to a sense of the
power of man. The spirit of that race of iron which held in check the
Assyrians still lingers over the scene of their exploits. You leave
the ancient city with an added element of interest in a country
which was the home of so great a people, and which still retains
the memorial of their sway. But that country was also the centre of
a mediæval kingdom, the contemporary and sometimes the rival of the
dynasty which has left us Ani as an example of their craft and taste;
and, such is the concern of the modern Armenian in the history of his
nation, that long before you will reach Van you will be familiar with
the name and arms of the kingdom of Vaspurakan. [114] It was therefore
with curiosity that we set out upon our journey, and with regret that
we were obliged by the season to narrow the sphere of our wanderings
to the regular stages of our prescribed route to Erzerum. [115]
At a little before noon on the 16th of November we mounted our horses
in the court of the American Mission, whither we had proceeded
to take leave of our friends. We passed by the church of Arakh,
and emerged from the zone of gardens upon the surface of the
bare plain. The usual stoppages in connection with the baggage,
which seldom fails to begin by slipping from the horse's back to
beneath his girth, enabled us to fill our eyes with the vision of
the bay and beauteous city which we might never contemplate again
(Fig. 138). We had purchased two new horses, one for the dragoman
and the other to carry our effects. You require a good animal for
the last of these purposes, who will trot along by himself. But
throughout our journey we experienced the greatest difficulty in
obtaining serviceable beasts at any price. Even at Van my choice was
narrowed by the various ailments of the other candidates to a sturdy
four-year-old who had not known work. This youngster, an iron grey,
was no sooner set at large than he set off at full gallop across
the plain. His career was cut short by the rapid overthrow of his
load, which dragged him panting to the ground. But we trained him to
perfection before reaching the northern capital, and I sold him at
a profit in Trebizond. Worse fortune attended our second purchase,
that of a seasoned horse of milk-white hue. I noticed that he was
limping about an hour out of Van; and, to my surprise, when I came to
examine him closer, he proved to be an ingenious substitute for the
one I had bought. The colour was the same, and also the appearance;
but not the points which had influenced my selection, although they
would not appeal to the dragoman's eye. The knave of an Armenian who
had concluded the sale with me had abstracted his former property
from my stable, and had put in his place this unsound hack. I sent
him back in charge of the zaptieh with a letter to Mr. Devey; but I
do not know whether our Consul ever recovered my stolen steed. He
most kindly sent me on a fine horse of his own, which reached us
safely at Vostan. Such are the tricks of these subtle Armenians,
whom long centuries of oppression have ingrained with every kind of
turpitude. As we rode along this shore, one regretted God's covenant,
that He would be patient with the hopeless race of man. To overwhelm
them in these waters and people afresh the scene of their crimes,
would, it seemed to us, be the kindest and wisest plan.
The weather was delightful--a climate mild as spring, made fresh
by the expanse of sea. The rays of a hot sun flashed through a
crystal-clear atmosphere, which disclosed wide prospects over lake
and land. Fragments of white cloud floated above the outline of
the Kurdish mountains, less gloomy beneath the newly-fallen snows
(Fig. 139). In the west, Nimrud was faithful to its appearance of an
island, separated by a strait from the train of Sipan. But to-day we
could see the walls of the vast crater--a caldron of which the rim
appeared commensurate with the area of the island, rising in a robe
of white from the waves. We were pointing towards the high land in
the direction of Artemid, the southern limit of the spacious plain
of Van. When near the village, we struck a road which the Pasha was
building, with the avowed intention of extending it to Bitlis. Workmen
were busy upon it, and there was quite a stream of little bullock
carts, conveying stones and soil. It follows the margin of the lake,
and the drive along it to Artemid will be a treat such as few cities
can bestow. The castled rock, backed by the fabric of the great volcano
beyond the distant headland of the bay; the noble lake, intensely blue,
expanding to the distant Nimrud, yet plashing tamely with tiny wavelets
on the sand--these are answered in the opposite direction, across the
poplars which hide the village, by the precipitous walls, sharp edges
and deep shadows, characteristic of the stupendous barrier in the
south. Although the distance between Van and Artemid does not exceed
eight miles, it was after two before we arrived. We mounted the side of
the hill ridge which meets the lake at this point in a bold and high
cliff. Gardens decline along the easier levels towards the invisible
margin of the shore. You look across the foliage to the fabric of
Sipan, no longer covered by the horn of the bay (Frontispiece).
Artemid! the Greek name, and the memorials in the neighbourhood of
that early civilisation which is revealed by the inscriptions of Van,
suggest, no less than the striking site, the possibility of further
discoveries, when the place shall have been thoroughly explored. [116]
A hasty examination would have been of small service, and we were
anxious to reach Vostan. So we rode, without halting, through the
straggling settlement, and did not draw rein until we had reached
a point some two miles beyond it, where it was decided to rest our
horses and take lunch. We were still crossing the barrier of hills
which support the gardens of Artemid; our situation was elevated, and
the view superb. We were able to follow on the horizon the outline of
the Ala Dagh, although those mountains were over sixty miles away. They
were loftiest on a bearing a few degrees east of north; and in that
direction there was a fine peak, overtopping the neighbouring summits
which fretted the edge of the long wall of snow-clad heights. A little
further west we could see those heights receding towards the south,
to the passage of the Murad. In the ridges which bordered the gap we
well recognised the outworks which the river pierces between Karakilisa
and Tutakh--the same ridges which, from our standpoint on the slopes of
the Ararat system, had composed a distant parapet, so faintly seen that
we questioned the impression, between the two blocks of mountain on the
southerly margin of the plain of Alashkert. [117] The landscape south
of Ala Dagh was now outspread before us; it was indeed an instructive
view. Whatever eminences broke the expanse were comparatively humble;
a zone of plains or vast steppes would appear to be interposed between
that barrier and the lake of Van. Recalling the prospects about Tutakh,
we arrived at the conclusion that those steppes are continued towards
the west; and subsequent travel established the fact that they extend
from the foot of the plateau of Bingöl Dagh towards the longitude of
Bayazid in the east. The only object which arrested the eye in the
direction of Ala Dagh was a high hill on the southern shore of the
arm of the lake, with a village and gardens at its base. It was said
to be the village of Alur. Ararat was not visible; but for the first
time we discerned land between Sipan and the crater of Nimrud. The
two mountains appeared to be joined by some low hills.
Proceeding at four o'clock, we commenced to descend after half an
hour from the range of hills which we had now crossed. In the plain
before us, bordering the lake, we could see a winding river which our
zaptieh knew under the name of Anguil Su, but which, I believe, is
more correctly spelt Enghil Su (Brant's Anjel Su). It comes from the
territory of Mahmudia, where it is called the Khoshab. [118] But we
had not yet reached the floor of the valley before we were confronted
by a swift stream which, fortunately for us, happened to be spanned by
a bridge. It was the famous Shamiram Su, flowing towards Artemid along
the slopes of the hills. I was informed that it has its source in some
springs about two hours distant, near the village of Upper Mechinkert,
and that a portion of its waters find their way into the Anguil Su
at the neighbouring settlement of Lower Mechinkert. After irrigating
the orchards of Artemid, it pursues its course to the gardens of Van,
in which it is said to become absorbed. [119] There can be no doubt
that it is an artificial conduit; left to itself it would join the
lake at the foot of this plain. My informant attributed to Semiramis
the conducting of it as far as Artemid. We remarked the exceptional
pureness of the current. Soon after crossing it, we reached the right
bank of the Anguil Su at a convenient bridge. The basin proper of
the river may have a width of some two miles, and it is a distance of
three or four miles from the bridge to the lake. Looking up the valley,
we could follow the outline of the Kurdish mountains as they circled
round towards Varag; that ridge itself was concealed by the hills
behind Artemid; but, although the range beyond had diminished in height
after leaving the lake, it was still the same range of bold parapets
and snowy peaks. The most elevated portion lay in the direction of
Akhtamar, where there was a lofty mass, known as Mount Ardos.
The stream, which had a greenish hue, was not more than some thirty
feet wide; a number of rivulets, driving flour-mills, come in on the
left bank. We had left that bank before opening out the village of
Anguil or Enghil; it lies below the bridge, on the further side of the
river, and consists of some sixty or seventy neat houses, inhabited
by Armenians and a few Kurds. On the same shore, about a mile lower
down, is situated the village of Mesgeldek. Some high ground separated
us from the plain of Vostan; but it dies away before reaching the
lake. Gaining the summit of this moderate eminence, we looked across
some flats and marshes to a hillside which projects from the foot of
the mountains, and forms a promontory of the shore. The foliage which
softened the lower slopes of the headland belonged to the gardens of
Vostan. We followed the bay of higher land, and reached the village
of Atanon after over an hour's ride from the Enghil Su. Just beyond
this Armenian settlement the zone of orchards commences; in the plain
below a swift stream flows. An isolated house on its right bank was
indicated to us as the residence of the Kaimakam of Vostan. We reached
this edifice at ten minutes before seven, having covered a distance
from Artemid of about fifteen miles. In the place of the official,
who happened to be absent, we were received with great kindness by his
brother. We were invited to pass the night in the room of audience; and
quilted coverlets, filled with cotton, were spread on takhts or wooden
couches, after the manner of the East. After supper and conversation
we enveloped ourselves in them, and were not long in falling asleep.
When morning came I commenced to explore and realise our
surroundings. Vostan is no town, nor even a village, but is a district
or zone of gardens at the foot of the Kurdish mountains about the
spurs of Mount Ardos. On the east it extends to the village of Atanon,
and on the west to the promontory. The orchards keep to the high
land about the base of the range; between them and the lake there is
an extensive strip of alluvial soil which, in the neighbourhood of
our quarters, had a width of about two miles. I was assured on all
sides that there were four or five hundred houses within the limits
of the district of Vostan; but people get confused when dealing with
an area of this description, and with the dispersed units of which
such a settlement is composed. I doubt whether there could be found
more than half that number. The Armenian families have emigrated;
their room, but not their place, has been filled up, at least in part,
by Kurds. As a natural consequence, it is impossible to obtain the
bare necessaries of a little corn, or a shoe for a horse. A small
church still remains, a memorial of better times, which is said to
have existed for many centuries. We could see its plain four walls
and small conical dome to the east of the Kaimakam's house. We were
told that it is still attended by a priest.
It is only on the neighbouring slope of the bold promontory that
Vostan can be said to assume a concrete existence; and, even there,
the group of buildings which feature the hillside are but the remains
of the ancient town. You see the relics of an old castle, the ruins of
a church, and a mosque where the faithful still pray. On the margin
of the lake, below the headland, a little mausoleum of yellow stone
still rises above the grassy soil. I set out on foot to visit the
site, in the company of the doctor of law for the caza of Kavach. My
companion--a man of middle age and intelligent face--bore the name
of Mustapha Remzi Effendi, and was known as the Hakim. After jumping
many ditches, which often compelled us to deviate, we arrived at the
mausoleum standing among the debris of an ancient cemetery, on rising
ground, at an interval of a few hundred yards from the peaceful waters
of the lake. It is indeed a charming monument, of highly-finished
masonry, fresh and clean as on the day when it was completed. In
shape it is dodecagonal, and it has an inside diameter of 15 feet 8
inches. The surface of the roof of stone--in form a cone with twelve
sides--is relieved by a moulding of geometrical pattern; a sculptured
frieze and a long inscription in Arabic character runs round the walls,
just below the roof. A familiar feature are the niches with stalactite
vaulting; a small doorway, surmounted by a moulding in this character,
gives access to the interior from the side of the lake. The Hakim read
to me an Arabic inscription which is placed above this entrance; it was
translated for me in the following sense. "This mausoleum belongs to
the daughter of the ruler here in Vostan, Sheikh Ibrahim." According
to my companion, the name of the lady was Halimeh. I doubt whether
her remains still repose within the enclosure of this jewel which
is her tomb. The door is gone, and the vault yawns as though it were
unoccupied, except by a heap of rubbish and debris. One admires the
taste of the architect, who refrained from decorating the interior
and left intact the restful influence of the spaces of wall.
From this cemetery we proceeded up the face of the hillside which juts
out from south to north and meets the lake. The remains of the castle
are situated upon the summit; the mosque and the ruins of the church
lie beneath it, upon the middle slopes. The castle has no pretensions
to architectural merit, and very little is left of the church. Some
stones engraved with crosses in the old Armenian fashion could still
be seen in the masonry of the last of these buildings, a mere chapel
rather than a church. But the mosque is an edifice of respectable
proportions, having inside dimensions of 65 feet 7 inches by 64
feet 4 inches. From the outside it is nothing more than four walls
of hewn stone, surmounted by a dome of clay. But when you enter the
spacious chamber the eye is pleased by the vaulted ceilings, and by
the double series of open arches which support the roof. These arches
are three in number in each series, and between each there is a space
of wall veil. In this manner one may say that there are a nave and
two aisles; but these aisles are of greatest length in the opposite
direction to that of the altar, which faces the entrance door. In
fact the arrangement is that usual in a Christian church, except for
the position of the altar. The ceilings are built of plain kiln-burnt
bricks, and neither they nor the walls are decorated in any way. A fine
feature is the dome, in the aisle furthest from the door. The membair,
or pulpit, on the right of the altar is a richly-wrought structure of
wood. An inscription records that it was the gift of Khosrov Pasha,
and that the donor restored the mosque in the year of the Hegira 850
(A.D. 1446). I have almost forgotten to mention that between this
mosque and the castle is placed a little building with three windows,
said to be the tomb of Sheikh Ibrahim.
Who was Sheikh Ibrahim, who was Khosrov Pasha? The answers which I
received to these questions did not go far to dispel my ignorance. The
Hakim called them Arabs, and connected them with the caliphate;
yet he admitted that they were a branch of the family which reigned
in Konieh, that is to say, of the dynasty of Seljuk Turks. To Sheikh
Ibrahim he attributed the foundation of both mosque and church, with
the intention of inducing his Moslem and his Christian subjects to
tolerate and respect each other's creed. He added that the last of
this line of rulers was one Izzeddin Shir Bey.
We returned to the house of the Kaimakam, where I joined the remainder
of my party. All were in the saddle by ten minutes to four o'clock. We
mounted the slope of the hill which forms the promontory, and which we
found to be a spur of Mount Ardos. It is crossed at a point behind,
or on the south of the castle; the ascent is steep and the decline
none too short. Nearing the strip of shore on the opposite side of the
barrier, we were impressed by the outcrops of red granitic rock and
green serpentine, the beds lying side by side. At half-past four we
gained the level, and proceeded at the foot of some hills which are
interposed between the range and the shore. These recede after some
distance, and circle away from the lake, leaving a spacious bay of
low and, in places, marshy ground. On the further horn of the shore
we were shown a group of trees and slowly-rising wreaths of smoke. It
was Akhavank, known to the Turks as Iskele (the port), the residence
on the mainland of the Katholikos of Akhtamar. Although the sand on
the border of the water was rather powdery, we found it better than
the broken ground inland. It was pleasant too to ride by the side of
the crystal water, and look down into the blue depths. Several little
villages could be seen at the foot of the hills; they appeared more
clearly from the lake next day. We reached Akhavank at ten minutes
to six, and I estimate the distance from Vostan at about eight miles.
A two-storeyed white-faced house, an upper room, built out, like
a verandah, with large windows overlooking the lake; stables and
appurtenances of various application--the whole relieved against
a background of poplars and fruit trees--such is Akhavank, the
residence of His Holiness the Katholikos Khachatur (given to the
cross) of Akhtamar. The house was full of people, and the stables of
horses; it so happened that the Kaimakam of Vostan was on a visit,
accompanied by a numerous retinue. The interior of the building was
bare and uncomfortable, rooms and passages alike. Full decadence was
written large on the squalid furniture and cheerless walls. I was
ushered into a long apartment, facing the bay, and composing one
side of the first floor. A fetid smell of garlic, and the want of
ventilation, almost overpowered me. At the further end of the room,
on a Kurdish rug, spread on the floor at the foot of the divan, sat
or squatted a fat priest, attired in a black robe edged with sable,
and wearing the usual black silk cowl of conical form, to which a cross
of dim rose diamonds was attached. His back rested on quite a little
nest of cushions; a few papers and a little bag lay at his side. On
the adjacent couch beside the wall were seated several persons of
various types of physiognomy and styles of dress.
I saluted, and received the salute of the figure on the floor; it was
the Katholikos of Akhtamar. He spoke of his advanced age and growing
infirmities; he was seventy-four years old, and had been possessed
of his dignity for no less than thirty years. His tomb was already
built; nothing remained but to spend the interval and descend into the
grave. This touching sentiment is often used as a becoming pretext
for idleness by better people than Khachatur. But, as he spoke,
the tongue lolled heavily from side to side, and the voice seemed
to struggle with an advanced asthmatic affection. In reply to my
enquiry why he did not reside in the island, I received the answer
that at Akhavank he was in a better position to receive his guests
and satisfy their wants. It is, no doubt, a paying business to keep
such a monastery, provided always that you manage it well. You must
personally superintend the arrangements for the picnic, or others of
lesser station will abstract your clients. You must be careful to keep
well with the Government officials, or pilgrims will be afraid to come.
So the Katholikos of Akhtamar discards his pomp, is seen and eats
with his guests in the same room round the same tray. On this
occasion he was the centre of what was certainly a curious party,
assembled against the evening meal. Servants entered with a circular
platter on which were arrayed the various viands, and placed it
before His Holiness. Requested to seat myself on the right of our
host, I endeavoured, as best I might, to fold my legs beneath my
body on a carpet by his side. Opposite me sat a Kurd, an old man
who was still a giant, with bony hands more than proportionate to
his size. From his sunken cheeks projected the beak of a vulture
between small and deeply-caverned eyes. One of the pupils had almost
entirely disappeared, leaving a patch of red within the hollow of the
contracted eyelid, from which a mucous fluid was discharged over the
parchment skin. Of such a face smiling could scarcely be expected; my
neighbour remained grave, taking his fill of each dish, and fixing me
with his single eye. On my right was the Kaimakam, a little man of no
particular characteristics, wearing a fez and European dress. Although
a Georgian and a relation of the Pasha of Van, you would take him for
a Turk. Towards myself he was profuse of compliments and attentions,
expressing his regret that he had not been present in Vostan to receive
us, and blaming the British Consul for not having written to announce
our stay. An officer of zaptiehs whom I had brought from Vostan with
me--a mad fellow who had lathered his pony by the wildest manoeuvres
as we rode along the sands--and some of the principal attendants of
the Turkish official, completed the company who were privileged to
share the meal of the Katholikos and sit at his pewter tray.
But on that tray my eyes discerned with ill-concealed fright a
spectre invisible to my fellow-guests. The shade of Hunger floated
over the messes of meat and unpalatable vegetables, swimming in oil
or ghee. [120] I could not eat the gritty pancake bread, or the salt
cheese inlaid with pieces of green straw. Nor was I able with success
to emulate the politeness of Julius Cæsar; a sickness came over me
when I tried. The old priest was at liberty to dip his fingers into
my dishes and pick the choicest bits. I could scarcely swallow a few
morsels; but my host was much too stupid to see through the excuses
which I made.
I felt that the cross might have joy of Khachatur, and left his
presence when the dishes had been removed. On my guard against the
prejudice of a bad dinner, I reflected that at Varag the pangs had
been the same; yet what pleasant recollections remained of that visit
and of the companionship of the quiet Daniel Vardapet! I sought out the
steward of His Holiness, and of him enquired for a sleeping-place. Zadò
was the name of this personage; he was an Armenian, but looked like
a Kurd. He was the most influential of the clerical officials,
and certainly smelt the worst. With him came Avò, the trustiest
of his henchmen, proud of his antecedents as crossing-sweeper
in Stambul. We were by them desired to spread our blankets in the
draughty antechamber; but I made them surrender a large, unoccupied
room. We were astonished to find within it a stack of cane-seated
chairs, and puzzled our heads to discover the purpose for which they
were used. Zadò informed us that they were arrayed on great occasions;
but nobody was aware that they were objects of necessity to a European
or even that they had come from Europe to these wilds.
Dawn had not yet broken when the boatmen we had ordered entered our
apartment, and summoned us to avail ourselves of the breeze. In spite
of our entreaties over night, the tea and eggs were not forthcoming;
hungry we went on board the little bark. The sun rose above the horizon
before we put off--a bright and joyous morning, the colours starting
from land and sea, and the still waters of the lake becoming every
moment more transparent and more blue. A light air, moving from the
shore, just ruffled their even surface. The plank was drawn inwards,
the broad square-sail set, and we glided easily away.
The crag of Akhtamar lay before us; behind us the sinuous shore at
the foot of the parapet of the Kurdish range. Who would expect that
these crystal depths should contain such nauseous elements, like a
beautiful but poisonous flower? The water of Lake Van is charged with
chemical matter, and is briny and putrid to the taste. You remark the
absence of fish, and recall the contrast of the teeming inlets of a
Lake Geneva or a Lake Lucerne. Nor are the coasts alive with boats
and the expanse with white-winged vessels; you rarely find a shallop
within the numerous creeks, although at times you may discover quite
a fleet of lateen-sailed craft crossing the broad sheet of sea. They
are manned almost exclusively by Armenian sailors; and when I asked the
eldest among our crew whether there were any of different nationality,
he said that with the exception of about five Kurds, only Armenians
pursued this calling. They are simple, hardy fellows, easy to get
on with; they conduct a small coasting trade. Those who had taken us
from Arjish were at Akhavank when we arrived, and were full of joy,
kissing our hands, to see us again. I had asked them to convey us
to Akhtamar; but they told me it was impossible, as their ship was
loading and, besides, it was not their turn.
The island is distant about two miles from the nearest shore and more
from Akhavank. At its westerly extremity a bold cliff of hard grey
limestone rises to a height of about eighty feet above the waters,
in face of the monastic buildings on the mainland. From this crag
the ground declines towards the east, and affords a level site
for the church and cloister. The bight, where the vessels moor, is
situated on the southern coast, not far from the bluff on the west
(Fig. 140). Within the space of an hour we were nearing the inlet,
and, a little later, stepped ashore.
Besides the cliff and the tiny bay there is not much of Akhtamar;
yet the little church looks small, even among such surroundings,
the work of a jeweller rather than of an architect. In our company
were two young clerics, deputed by His Holiness to escort us, the one
a priest of the peasant type and with the ignorance of a peasant, the
other a deacon who had been educated at Constantinople and who affected
to despise his colleagues and superiors. In spite of his pale face,
this second Khachatur (given to the cross) was not less stupid or
less indolent than the rest. Two more priests were in residence upon
the island; but neither belonged to a higher social or intellectual
grade. None among them knew more about the place and its history
than a few stereotyped words, learnt by heart. Press them further,
and they would burst into an inane giggle, the vardapet of Akhavank
giving the cue.
How one regretted the society of the well-read monks of Edgmiatsin,
from which community and spiritual government this monastery became
dissociated during the religious quarrels of the twelfth century. [121]
We walked to the cloister on the south side of the church; the low mud
wall joins the outer wall of the narthex on the west, and is produced
so as to form a court. There is nothing interesting in the residence
of the monks or in the apartments of the Katholikos. But the edifice
which they face is indeed a remarkable monument and, so far as my
experience extends, unique. Its dimensions are not large: a length of
48 feet 6 inches and a breadth of 38 feet (interior measurements). The
characteristics which impress the eye, accustomed to the beauties of
Armenian architecture, are the height of the composition with its lofty
walls and central tower, and the elaborate mural decorations. As usual,
the effect is marred by the additions of a later age. On the south
side a belfry and portico, giving entrance to the interior, are due
to the misplaced piety of a katholikos of the eighteenth century; and
the same personage contributed the spacious narthex or pronaos which
adjoins the church upon the west. [122] The eye is obliged to remove
these later excrescences before it is enabled to seize the merits of
the design. My reader will recognise the first of these features in
the illustration taken from the south-east (Fig. 141). The companion
picture from the north-west corner exhibits the low narthex coming
forward beyond the side of the church (Fig. 142).
A work of the first quarter of the tenth century is disclosed in all
the freshness of its original appearance. [123] Some of the figures
which project from the walls have suffered partial fracture; but the
rich friezes are almost intact. Beginning at the base, we have first a
broad space of plain masonry, enhancing the value of the sculptures
above, from which it is separated by a band of deeply chiselled
stone. This band, like the friezes, is both continuous round the
building and in emphasised relief. It consists of a spiral geometrical
pattern, representing the vine. Life-size human figures, interspersed
with the forms of animals, compose a series of pictures rather than a
procession, and rest upon the moulding just described. They are also in
relief, and stare out at the visitor with all the naïveté of the early
Middle Ages. Subjects from Bible history succeed one another, varied
by the gaunt figures of Christian saints. Here you remark the colossal
figure of Goliath, armed with club and shield (Fig. 141); there it is
Adam and Eve, standing naked beside the tree of life, and, a little
further, the serpent tempting Eve (Figs. 142 and 143). The treatment
of the human form is primitive and almost barbarous, recalling the
Romanesque. One is impressed with the combination of naturalism, nay of
realism, subdued, and at times checked by hieratic convention. These
sculptures pass over into a restful region of unworked stone, and are
succeeded by a row of heads, the heads of animals and birds, jutting
out at irregular intervals from the face of the building. Above them,
again, you admire the freedom and extraordinary intricacy of the most
elaborate of the friezes. Hunters and wild animals and strange birds
are represented, woven together by branches of vine with clusters
of grapes. Higher still another band is drawn along the eaves of the
roofs, except on the north and south sides of the apse. Rampant animals
are the principal subject; but on the north side of the western arm
you observe a row of human heads. A somewhat similar frieze is seen
below the roofing of the central tower or dome.
It may perhaps be found that this exterior discloses elements which,
blended together, are of high importance to the study of art. The form
of the church, the geometrical ornaments are Byzantine in character;
on the other hand, of all the churches which we visited during our
wanderings none other was decorated with bas-reliefs of human figures
after the manner of this edifice. Such treatment would be repugnant to
the chaster spirit of the architects of Ani, and may denote that the
standard of culture in the southern principality was not so high as
in Shirak. The friezes partake of the nature of those with which we
are already familiar; but they are more daring and much more freely
drawn. They may constitute an important link between the art of the
ancient Assyrians and the art of the Arabs and the Byzantines. Layard,
who visited Akhtamar, has most pertinently drawn our attention to
the resemblance between the principal frieze and the embossed designs
on some bronze dishes which were discovered at Nimrud (banks of the
Tigris); but he has not noticed that the bulls' heads which adorned
the ends of the arms of the king's throne at Nimrud are almost exactly
reproduced in some of the stone ornaments which project from the face
of this church. [124]
I have said that a narthex of later origin adjoins the building upon
the west; it was from that side that we entered the interior. The
façade of this narthex is as bald and plain as its inner walls and
the rude flagstones of the floor. The ceiling is low; in the centre
a shallow vaulting rests upon four arches and piers. It has a length
of 32 feet 11 inches, and a breadth, from north to south, of 36 feet
5 inches. It does not contain an altar, and the only object which you
remark within it is a large block of stone. Our companions informed me
that it is placed over the grave of one Abdul Miseh, a king, as they
supposed, of the Artsruni dynasty. If this block be the same as that
upon which Layard saw some cuneiform characters, their Abdul Miseh
may be a corruption of the name of the great king Menuas, revealed
by the researches of Western scholars. [125]
Four steps lead up from the narthex to the little, undecorated doorway
by which we entered the principal building. The interior may perhaps
be described as consisting of four apses, the whole surmounted by the
lofty dome. A feature are the deep recesses, narrow at the entrance,
which are placed one on either side of each apse, and are seen from
the outside between the arms of the cruciform figure. The apses on the
west and east are deeper than those on the north and south; the most
southerly contains a gallery of which the face is adorned with images,
two heads of bulls and two of rams, the head of an elephant and of
a tiger, carved in full relief out of the stone. In this gallery we
were informed that King Gagik had been wont to pray. The walls had
been adorned by rich frescos; but little of these remained. The apse
on the north communicates with a vaulted chamber and a little chapel,
where is preserved the holy oil.
A cemetery surrounds the church, from the south-east corner to the
north side. Issuing by the portico on the south, we stopped to remark
an ambitious tomb of which the stone was fresh from the chiseller's
tool. On the sides of the recumbent portion were represented the
figures of apostles--a frieze which had probably been copied from some
rude work of the Middle Ages, and which was coloured in gaudy reds and
greens and blues. Upon the upper surface of the slab was engraved a
long inscription, and beneath the inscription the grand emblem of the
double-headed eagle, with cross and mitre, the eagle of Vaspurakan. The
headstone was adorned with the portrait of a katholikos, wearing the
cross of diamonds on his cowl. The features were those of our host;
it was the tomb of Khachatur, into which he had told us that he
was preparing to step. The legend set forth that the grave had been
dedicated on September 12, 1893. Following this announcement, came a
farewell message from His Holiness, conceived in the following terms:--
I approach thee, O fair grave, with a greeting; my secrets to tell
I have no tongue, because they were lost before I came to speak
with thee. The generations of my people I grieve to relinquish; I
Khachatur, given to the Cross, will obey the Cross (es Khachatur i
Khachis ku-pakchim). When I come to thee, all the manifold memories
will have vanished. Whatever I may leave behind me--the holy oils,
the library, the cowl, the stole, the staff--I leave them to serve
as a memory of me for my successors. Lastly I approach my people and
entreat them to be loyal to Sultan Hamid, the illustrious, because
during my whole life I have found help from him and from his high
officers. My soul will be protected by the weekly prayer of my pupils;
pray for me weekly for a while and forget me not.
On the east of the building there is a little chapel, now in
ruins. I was informed by the Katholikos that it is even older than
the church. Returning to the monastic quarters, we asked to be shown
the library, and were ushered into a small, whitewashed room. Five
little shelves, occupying a single side of the apartment, hold all the
manuscripts and books which the monks possess. Neither the vardapet nor
the deacon was conversant with their contents; but the manuscripts, so
far as we were able to examine them, were all concerned with Biblical
subjects. Two stones, engraved with cuneiform inscriptions, are kept in
this room. [126] The treasure was carried off by the Kurds years ago;
[127] but our companions were able to produce several mitres and some
rich embroideries, of which one piece, worked with the device of the
double-headed eagle, appeared to be of considerable age.
After a last look at the remarkable church, with its many faces of
fresh pink sandstone, mottled by the subtle reliefs with light and
shade, our little party retraced its steps to the peaceful harbour,
and embarked on the homeward voyage. The breeze had veered for our
convenience to the opposite direction, and wafted us towards the
mainland. We passed close to the bold crag, and to the tiny islet
which, crowned by the remains of a fort and a diminutive chapel, juts
out from the south-westerly extremity of the sea-girt cliffs. Before us
lay the horn of the bay on the west of Akhavank, and in the foreground,
a second islet, the rock of Arter, which, like its fellow, supports a
little shrine. Sipan was seen in all his majesty, sweeping across the
horizon, until the outline of the base was covered by the outline of
the promontory. From that headland three little barks were stealing
towards us, specks of white on the expanse of blue. In the south
the snows of Ardos streamed with sunlight above horizontal layers
of cloud. I could hear the heavy breathing of my fellow-passengers;
the water eddied softly in our wake.
In the space of about an hour the plank was again lowered and the
stern allowed to graze the sand. The Kaimakam and his retinue were
assembled on the shore--the high officers mentioned in the message on
the tomb. I received their greetings and good wishes, and, promising
to rejoin them, passed with the dragoman to the apartment of the
Katholikos. I found His Holiness seated on the same rug at the foot
of the divan, in the same posture and attired in the same ceremonious
dress as when he had received us the preceding day. The same cowl
with the diamond cross enveloped the forehead, which, judging from
the thick lips, flat nose and little eyes, was better hidden than
revealed. He beckoned his people to withdraw; we were alone with the
Patriarch; Turkish contempt still shrinks from converting the chamber
of a Christian prelate into a permanent lodging for a Kaimakam. So
our host was free to answer the questions which I addressed to him
without fear of being reported by malevolent tongues. He informed
me that his patriarchate was quite independent, both of Edgmiatsin
and of Constantinople. But he was in the habit of consulting with
the Patriarch of Constantinople in respect of such Church matters
in which collaboration was mutually useful. Artemid is the easterly
limit of his spiritual kingdom, and is included within its area. On
the west it comprises a portion of Garchigan, but does not extend as
far as Kindirantz. On the south, the cazas of Mukus and Shatakh are
either its boundaries or contribute constituent districts.
The practice of their religion he assured me was quite free,
emphatically he repeated, "quite free." The political troubles which
convulsed the country were caused by scamps (chapkiner) on the side
of the Armenians, and by bad Kaimakams. I questioned him closely as to
whether, when he was young, the Armenian population was not much more
numerous along this shore. He answered that the country on the south
was at that time inhabited by them in far greater numbers than now;
but there was no perceptible difference along the coast. He admitted,
however, that during his youth there were Armenians residing at Vostan.
At this point in the conversation my host pronounced the name of
Zadò; and forthwith divine fragrance announced the presence of
the major-domo, attentive to the faintest call. Obedient to his
master's behests, he proceeded to unlock a large wooden box, and to
lay out upon the floor a number of tawdry State Orders and Firmans of
investiture. Es Khachatur i Khachis ku-pakchim! Some of these objects
the Katholikos regarded with especial reverence, devoutly pressing them
to his lips. Religion has become a trade with such as this prelate,
and they themselves hotel-keepers and show-mongers. Each pilgrim
leaves the equivalent of double what he costs. Placing a suitable
present in the hands of his Holiness, which he accepted after many
protestations, I took leave of Khachatur for ever.
Resuming our journey at four o'clock, we crossed the high land on the
west of Akhavank, and again descended to a strip of plain, bordering
the shore. On the opposite side of the deep inlet, which was now
disclosed to its furthest recesses, lay the arm of the long promontory
which encloses the landscape in the neighbourhood of Akhtamar. About
halfway in, along that coast, we saw a considerable village, said to
be an Armenian settlement, called Mirabet. [128] Further inland, at the
head of the gulf, is situated the Armenian village of Norkeui; while on
the rising ground, at the extremity of the plain, a little to the east
of Norkeui, the Kurdish hamlet of Sarik receives the torrent of a long
cascade, descending precipitous cliffs. We turned our backs to the lake
and passed between the two last-named settlements, towards an opening
of the hills on the opposite shore. A stream or little river issues
from the cleft and flows towards Norkeui. A single telegraph wire,
taken across the plain, followed us on our left hand. At half-past
five we were in the fork, entering a long and stony valley, with a
main direction from south-east to north-west. It is well watered,
and what soil there is has been rendered productive by artificial
channels. The swirling current swept past us at the foot of a sparse
grove of golden-leaved forest trees. The vista backwards was closed
by the broad-shouldered Ardos, with gleaming snows and precipitous
sides. Our destination was Enzakh, an Armenian hamlet of some dozen
burrows, in a lofty situation at the head of this valley. It was
nearly seven when we arrived, having covered a distance of some
thirteen miles, and attained an elevation of about 6900 feet.
When we issued from our fetid quarters on the following morning
(November 19), a frost lay on the ground. At nine o'clock we were
in the saddle, proceeding in a westerly direction in order to cross
the wall of the valley. It is lofty, and is scaled by a precipitous
path. Before taking the main ascent, we passed by a lonely chapel,
surrounded by a stone enclosure. It is known to the Armenians under
the name of Surb Yakob (or Agop), and to the Kurds under that of
Gubudgokh. The interior consists of a dome, resting on four arches,
and a deep apse. The priest was not forthcoming, having left his
eyrie to purchase bread. It was nearly ten o'clock when we reached
the summit of the ridge at an altitude of about 7600 feet.
Although the ground was flecked with snow in the immediate
neighbourhood of where we stood, the sun had already warmed the
mountain air. We halted for half-an-hour in order to realise our
position. We had come a little south of a westerly course from
Enzakh. Our ridge appeared to be a spur from the barrier in the
south; but it increased in height as it approached the invisible
lake. The mass of rock in that direction was called by our guides Ak
Kul; they knew nothing of Kiepert's Mount Gubudgokh. These heights
compose the promontory on the west of Akhtamar, and, in a country of
railways, would no doubt be pierced by a tunnel. In the east we could
discern the summit of Varag; a succession of ridges lined the west,
pursuing an almost meridional direction, the most distant covered
with snow. Continuing our march at the back of Ak Kul, I counted no
less than six of these parapets, without including those of lesser
significance. They appeared to be inclined a few points towards
the east. I hammered off a fragment of the characteristic strata,
a mica-schist, weathered a pale reddish hue.
For over an hour we were involved in this sea of mountains,
our course being clearly indicated by a line of telegraph posts,
dipping and rising to the troughs and up the crests. But at a quarter
before twelve we emerged from this wild and uninhabited district,
and again overlooked the lake. We were approaching the easterly end
of the beautiful bay of Baghmesheh (garden of oak), and were about to
follow the upper slopes of the lofty block of hills which confine the
narrow respite of the shore. Our present position was about two miles
distant from the calm water, and at a considerable elevation above its
level. We rode for half-an-hour along these slopes, through a bush
of oak which nowhere attains the proportions of trees. A few boats
were moored against the sand, and we could descry a few huts. Zenith
and sea were intensely blue; but grey vapours came floating towards
us, concealing all but the shining summit of Sipan. From the further
extremity of the bay we again saw the isle of Akhtamar, and, behind
it, dimly perceived, the rock of Van.
It cost us little effort to ascend from our track on the hillside
to the summit of the ridge which forms a headland on the west. The
view from that eminence in a westerly direction recalled none of the
landscapes through which we had passed. At our feet lay a plain of
perfectly level surface, enclosed on all sides by hills. On the side
of the lake a line of heights shut out this plain from the shore,
resembling a huge dam. After a descent of half-an-hour we reached
the floor of the formation, which is a little more elevated than the
surface of the lake. Under this eastern wall lies the Armenian hamlet
of Göli, while, on an opposite slope, at the head of the valley into
which the plain narrows, is situated the village of Kindirantz. We
rode for half-an-hour from the first to the last of these settlements,
deviating south of our direct course. I was anxious to visit in his
capital the Kaimakam of Garchigan. For Kindirantz is no less a place
than the seat of government for that caza, although it cannot boast
of more than thirty houses. [129] We arrived before two o'clock,
having completed a distance of some seventeen miles from Enzakh.
The Kaimakam was at his post and delighted to receive us. We found in
him an official who did honour to his country, active and strenuous
in spite of his white hair. He had built himself a house with solid
walls of masonry, a rare luxury in these wilds. It had of course been
erected by Armenian workmen; but he complained of the backwardness and
laziness of the Armenians inhabiting his administrative district. He
told me that it comprised no less than seventy-six villages, of which
only twelve were peopled by that race. But I noted that of the five
settlements in the plain of Kindirantz, three, including his place of
residence, were Armenian. The largest village in his caza was, he said,
Kordikran, inhabited by Kurds. But it was not so well situated for
purposes of administration as Kindirantz. The Kurds in his district
were all settled on the land, and formed the large majority of the
population. They sent recruits to the Nizam or regular army. He
assured me that since his arrival in the country complete security
for life and property prevailed. I have no reason to doubt his word.
Kindirantz must be five or six miles distant from the lake, and the
plain may have a length from north to south of five miles, with an
average breadth of about two miles. A nice stream descends from the
hills in the neighbourhood of the little town. In connection with
this plain I may mention a natural phenomenon which repeats itself
every year. When the snows melt in spring and the torrents rush down
from the mountains, the plain becomes completely submerged. The
line of heights on the side of the lake prevent the egress of the
waters, which attain in places a depth of about ten feet. The flood
ultimately escapes through three principal subterraneous passages,
besides several minor outlets. The water rushes through these natural
tunnels in the dam formed by the cliffs, but it takes a considerable
time for it all to disappear. When the land is again revealed, the
peasants sow their crops, which, in some years, yield an excellent
harvest. But it often happens that they are withered by the fierce
sun of summer, which has already commenced by the time that the lake
has run out. To this cause the Kaimakam attributed the poverty of
the neighbouring villages. I have no doubt that the little stream,
if properly utilised, would go far towards irrigating their lands;
and if a proper tunnel were cut, and reservoirs constructed, the soil
might be made as fertile as any in the world.
We proceeded on our journey at four o'clock, accompanied by the
Kaimakam, who rode a fiery grey horse. His saddle rested on a light
blue cloth, bordered with a yellow fringe; the trappings and bridle
were adorned with yellow tassels. He himself was attired in the civil
dress of Europe, and wore the fez. He could not control his steed,
although a good horseman; the youngster who carried our baggage became
enlivened by the example, and set off at a canter with his load. The
Kaimakam galloped after him; but our colt was in condition, and showed
him his heels until he was arrested at an adjacent village. This
escapade cost us time, and it was nearly half-past five before we had
scaled the heights on the west of the plain. At our feet lay the lake,
about two miles away. It is the peculiar favour of this fascinating
seaboard that, often hidden, it is always new and always fair. Not
a patch of ragged coast disturbs the impression of ideal beauty,
resuming and blending the choicest features of other shores. Our
landscape of this evening embraced the westerly extremities of the
white, unruffled expanse (Fig. 144). The sun was declining beyond the
colossal crater of Nimrud, a true caldron rising from the lake on the
opposite margin. Deep shadows clothed the promontories between our
standpoint and the mountain, among which a bold headland, seen on the
left of my illustration, jutted out in the form of a peninsula. It was
named to us after a neighbouring village, the cape of Vanik. During
my second journey it was found to conceal a small crater. In the
foreground we overlooked the soft foliage of the village of Surb,
with fertile fields and a little bay of U-shaped curve. It caught the
light from the western sky, and reflected the tender tints on the very
threshold of the pale water and gloomy rocks. I was informed that it
is inhabited by Armenians and Moslems. We left it on our right hand
as we descended by a precipitous path.
West of Surb the mountains descend to the immediate border of the
lake, and the track is taken at no great height above the water along
their steep and rocky sides. It follows every bend in the outline of
the shore. This characteristic was new to us, a crowning variety of
the manifold features which rendered memorable our journey along the
coast. As we advanced along this path we opened out the majestic Sipan,
seen from foot to summit in the failing light. Night was closing when
we arrived at a recess in the barrier, harbouring some fine chestnut
trees. There is situated the village of Garzik, with thirty small
tenements, of which twenty are inhabited by Armenians and ten by
Kurds. The Kaimakam had sent forward a horseman, and our arrival was
expected; a stable of unusual loftiness had been prepared. Hay had
been laid on crates, and rugs spread upon this primitive mattress,
destined to be our bed. Our horses rested near us, my colt and the
Kaimakam's show-horse munching peacefully side by side. Our kind
friend of Kindirantz related stories to us, while we watched the
smoke wreathing upwards to the central aperture in the roof of logs.
One of these stories was suggested by a question which I put to him,
whether monogamy was strictly practised by the Christians. He told
me--and his statement was confirmed from Christian sources--that the
possession of several wives was not an infrequent occurrence among
them, in spite of the ban of the Church. Not that the priests were
a model of chastity according to his experience, which agreed with
the conclusion arrived at by a bishop of Rumelia, his friend and
countryman. That prelate had told him that four wives were allotted
to a Mohammedan, one to a Christian and all to a bishop. I asked
whether the Armenians intermarried with the Kurds in a village of mixed
population like Garzik. His answer, which was in the negative, explains
the stories of abduction which make such a show in our Blue-books. A
Kurd sees a pretty Armenian girl of his own village, and, as often
as not, a mutual passion arises between them. The lady is not always
an unwilling victim, as our Armenian friends would lead us to suppose.
We slept soundly in spite of the fleas which made a meal upon us,
and were again in the saddle at a quarter before eight. After taking
leave of the Kaimakam, who returned to Kindirantz, we continued our
journey along the path on the mountain-side. For three-quarters of an
hour we made our way beneath the precipices, until we again emerged
upon a strip of plain. Vanik it is called, after an Armenian village;
it has a depth of about a mile. We crossed it in a quarter of an
hour, and entered a natural passage between a promontory of the lake
and the main range. This passage became a valley of bleak and rugged
aspect, and we did not see the lake again. At half-past nine we left
the telegraph wires, which we had been following for some distance;
they stretched away on our right hand. They are taken by Elmali to
Tadvan and Bitlis by a more northerly and less direct course. The
prospect opened towards the north; we were in face of the mass of
Nimrud, no longer separated by an arm of the sea (Fig. 145). A little
later we arrived upon the banks of a stream which flowed along with
us for some way. We crossed it by a ford near an ancient bridge
of hewn stone which had been allowed to fall into ruin. Pursuing a
westerly course, we passed through a considerable village, inhabited
by settled Kurds. It is called Gotok, and is distinguished by some
caves, adjoining the track, with artificial niches and chambers. It
contains no less than seventy tenements, and is included within the
limits of the vilayet of Bitlis. It seems a prosperous place. Our
stream, which they named Sapor, now flowed off upon our right towards
Lake Van. We ourselves took an almost south-westerly direction, while
our rugged valley became more spacious and more fair. It assumed the
form of a strip of plain, between opposite ridges, stretching away to
snow-clad mountains in the south. It is known as the Güzel Dere, or
beautiful valley; we thought it deserved the name. We met and saluted
a shepherd at the head of his flock; as usual in the neighbourhood
of Bitlis, he was armed with a rifle. At half-past eleven we entered
a side valley, almost at right angles, on a course a little north of
west. We could see our track, climbing the side of a lofty ridge of
mountain at the head of this opening. The Güzel Dere was lost to view,
extending towards the spine of the chain. A ride of a quarter of an
hour brought us to the Armenian village of Sach, situated at the upper
end of this side valley. It is composed of fifty houses and possesses
a church; but its inhabitants are extremely poor. They subsist on
cakes of millet seed, and have little corn or barley, although the
soil in these valleys is extremely rich. When I upbraided them with
their indolence, I received the answer that labour was useless so
long as the peasant was not permitted to enjoy the fruits of his toil.
We halted in this village for three-quarters of an hour, and then
commenced the ascent of the ridge. The pass has an elevation of
about 1900 feet above Lake Van; and one can readily appreciate the
reasons which have influenced traffic to prefer the easier if somewhat
lengthier route by way of Elmali. The actual scaling of the parapet
occupied half-an-hour; patches of snow clung to the rocks about the
summit. It is called the Pass of Bor, from an Armenian village in
the opposite valley. We reached that settlement at three o'clock;
it lies in the watershed of the Tigris, to which a stream flowed
from the further side of the ridge we had crossed, a tributary of
the Bitlis Chai. The people of Bor appeared to us to be on the verge
of starvation; the women had for the most part been reduced to mere
skeletons. It is a place of some size, and I afterwards heard of some
interesting tombstones which were said to belong to this township. This
upper portion of the valley has a breadth of three-quarters of a mile,
and expands as you proceed. We pursued a westerly course, and arrived
at the junction with the road from Tadvan. The telegraph wires are
carried across the heights on the north of the valley, which at this
point are insignificant. We stopped to visit an ancient khan, built
of hewn stone and of considerable size. Beside it is a new bridge,
also of finished masonry, recalling the grand old days. I was informed
that it had been constructed by the present Vali of Bitlis, though,
heaven knows! he has no excuse for such lavishness. The stream
which it crosses and which flows in a deep gorge is spanned by a
less presumptuous structure which might suffice for all ordinary
needs. Further evidence of this childish but truly Oriental habit of
embellishing your capital while your kingdom is quaking about you
was furnished by a metalled road which commences at this point and
puts the traveller in a good mood. After passing a second bridge,
traversing the chasm of a torrent which came towards us on our right
hand, we turned with the valley to a south-westerly direction, which
was maintained for about 1 1/2 miles. We then defiled into the deep
recesses of the network of valleys in which repose the castle and town
of Bitlis. It was after four o'clock, and I estimate the distance from
Garzik at 27 miles. Between Kindirantz and that village we covered
about 9 miles, which gives a total of just under 100 miles from Van.